Morgan's Station: The Last Indian Raid in Kentucky

By Charles Jay Bishop II

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Kentucky Gazette

NUMB. XXIX Quidquid agunt homines-nostri farrago libelli. Juv. Sat. 8. v. 8 VOL. VI

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S A T U R D A Y, April 6, 1793

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LEXINGTON; Printed by John Bradford at his office on Main Street: where subscriptions, (at Fifteen Shillings per Annum) Advertisements are thankfully received, and Printing in its different branches done with care and expedition:

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On Monday evening last, Morgan's Station on Slate Creek, was taken and burnt by a party of thirty-five Indians; Two of the inhabitants were killed and nineteen taken prisoner; they were pursued, and within about thirty miles the whole of the prisoners were found tomahawked and scalped, one of which (a woman) was found alive and in her senses, after being tomahawked and two scalps taken off.-we have the above information from the husband of the unfortunate woman.

The above is the actual article printed after the attack. Only Robert Craig's, a fraught husband and grieving father, description of events came from desperation. Not all the prisoners were killed during the Indian's escape from Morgan's Station, and their pursuit did not end within about thirty miles of the attack. Negotiations won back several of the enslaved over the following years. But then it is also true some were never heard from or seen again. Open up the book, step back in time, become a frontiersman or woman, and see Eastern Kentucky as you have never seen it before in a true American story about the struggle for Western expansion on the Kentucky frontier, Morgan's Station.

Follow Morgan's Station Facebook group for book signing information or speaking engagements.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636921419

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Morgan’s

Station

The Last Indian Raid in Kentucky

Charles Jay Bishop II

Copyright © 2021 Charles Jay Bishop II

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2021

Illustrated by Samantha Smith, Superfection Design, L.L.C.

ISBN 978-1-63692-140-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63692-141-9 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

For Katie. Me More.

Acknowledgments

Beta readers and editing—this group of people have been invaluable to me. Without them, this book would be a nonsensical jumble of misspelled words punctuated poorly. Their time, advice, and patience with me mean more than I can say. Thank you, Fred Bishop, Tabitha Bishop, Gayle Gunderson Boyce, David Charles, Michael Jehlik, Daniel Jones, Eric Mercer, Danny Montgomery, Daryl Montgomery, Kat Risley, Michael S. Rogers, Robby West, and Nathan Williams.

Also, I have to give a huge shout-out to Veterans Writing Project and all the volunteers there. My volunteer mentor was Renee Sklarew, author of The Unofficial Guide to Washington, D.C. Her attention to detail and clarifying suggestions have been paramount on this project. Working with her has been an honor and a privilege. So to everyone at Veterans Writing Project, hoorah!

Book cover idea by Jason Toller.

Thanks to all the folks above and for those who were sounding boards. Also thank you to the wonderful staff of the Montgomery County Public Library and all the research you did with me. For access to the older, crumbling maps and older tomes you possess as well.

Thank all of you for reading, and I hope you enjoy Morgan’s Station.

Follow Morgan’s Station Facebook group for book signing information, speaking engagements, or to speak with the author.

The following is based upon true events.

Prologue

Tuesday, December 10, 1833

It had been a glorious Harvest Festival for Reverend John Shane—sermons, thanksgivings, and the food, oh the food. Reverend Shane was not an overly rotund man, but it did take a fair-sized bolt of cloth to make his coat, and he did like to eat. The sisters at Pisgah Presbyterian Church had gone all out this year—roasted hog, lamb, spits filled with turkey and grouse, potatoes, tomatoes, mustard greens, apples, pears, peaches, and on and on went the litany in his head. A sheer delight of pleasure for one who enjoys such things. And God forgive the gluttony, but the pies—oh the blackberry, cherry, apple, pecan, and that chocolate walnut pie!

The reverend’s hand instinctively covered his mouth and wiped down as salivation began anew with the memory of such a wonderful morsel. He let go a quick sigh of satisfied discomfort as if he had just finished eating all over again. And chocolate, where had the woman gotten the chocolate? Surely not easy to come by in Versailles, Kentucky. But to combine it in a pie with walnut? Divines assuredly had visited the sister for her to possess such talent.

The coach lurched again upon the snow-covered ruts of the Lexington Road, or was it now the Versailles Road? How close to the station was he? It was only about a thirteen-mile trip to the Short Street Coach Office. He adjusted the heavy quilt given to him by the driver before their departure.

It’ll be a cold’en, lord. God, be kind to a poor soul, but ’em flaps, my lord, they aren’t much for keep’en out da wind. No, my lord, not much of nothing, really. But this here quilt, my lord. Aye, my Nancy made that, she did, my lord. Right enough with her own two hands. God above, bless her, for she is none too bright. Not right in the head and all. But quilt’n. Yes, my lord, she is good with a needle and thread, she is. Yes, my lord. British influences still heavy in his voice. Well, Lord willing, it will be a quick trip then. He wished the Lord would will it a little more.

Lexington had a hard summer. Sickness had run rampant through the city, and its cause was still unknown. The weekly paper, the Kentucky Gazette, said more than five hundred of the city’s six-thousand people had died. Many of its richer citizens had fled the city for outlying areas, infusing the newer, smaller towns with wealth and growth. Now the sickness seemed to have abated, and people were slowly moving back into town. Reverend Shane himself had not been in Lexington in four years. It would be good to be back in a big city once more.

Four years. That was when he first heard the story of Morgan’s Station. He could not explain the obsessive fascination he had for, for what exactly? The people, the history, the wildness of knowing just a few short years ago this was still untamed land? But he had tracked down all the survivors: David, Andrew, Harry, his wife Sarah, and others. All except one. And tonight, that meeting would finally take place.

The coach took a hard left, and he was suddenly aware of the clamor taking place around him. He heard voices, indistinct over the sound of the wagon wheels, as other drivers called to their teams. A man bellowed something about hot chestnuts, trying to sell his wares on the street corner. With the whack of a stave across a pig’s rump, he could hear the herd squealing as they were corralled into the stable behind the butcher.

A few quick turns and the coach came to a stop. Wiggling his toes and stomping his feet, the reverend pushed the quilt to the empty seat across from him. Standing as well as he could inside the enclosed cabin, he picked up his bag and reached for the door. It opened before him, and there stood King. William Solomon, known as King by nearly everyone in town, was a large shabby man. His ready broad grin defused the outlandishness of his unkempt hair and suit coat, but there was no mistaking the smell of sour whiskey upon the man’s lapel.

The reverend covered his nose with his forearm. Awe, King. Back up so a man can breathe. Even the crispness of this air can’t quill that foul coat of yours.

King took a step back but kept grinning. Not another sermon, Reverend. I’ve not even had none today. Aunt Charlotte says no drink till I get you where you’re a-goin’.

Stepping down, the two men grasped hands. And how is Aunt Charlotte doing? Still an angel behind an oven, I hope.

She is that. She sends you a basket. He lofted a heavily covered basket hanging from his elbow.

Oh Lord, bless that woman!

Um. A throat cleared behind the reverend. Turning, he found the driver, snotcicles adoring his mustaches. Lord? If there is nothing else, he said through chattering teeth.

Reverend, please. He dug in his pockets for his coin bag, handing the man a sizable tip for his trouble. Not Lord, call me Reverend.

Aye, as ya say, my Lord. As ya say. He bobbed his head and stepped into the stage office, no doubt seeking the warmth of a fire.

Reverend Shane looked up at the building—a three-story brick directly adjacent its neighbor, another three-story brick of a much darker red. How they made the bricks a different color, he had no idea. Ah, but the advancements of the modern age.

While the prospect of a fire was appealing, as were the contents of the basket King was carrying, his journey was nearing its end. Yes, warmth must wait.

Turning back to King, he continued, You have found him then?

I have, King gestured down Short Street. A quick walk down to Barr Street. He stays in the back room of a pub down there. He is expecting ya, and I’ll bet he has had a drink by now.

The two men walked on. Give over, King. The Lord save you, but you will die in the poorhouse if you don’t stop the drink.

Grinning sheepishly, King said, No sermons, Reverend, remember?

As they walked, the reverend reached over and set his hand on the other man’s shoulder. The sickness was bad. When no reply came, he squeezed and released. I heard what you did, King. God bless you, but no man could do better.

Embarrassed, King quickened his step. Not far now.

Stopping in front of a low-built log structure, the two men stepped from the cold into the, well, not near so cold. A low fire burned on the hearth but threw little heat into the interior. The mud used in poorly chinking the logs allowed the cold egress in many locations. Mismatched tables and chairs were scattered haphazardly about the room. The makeshift bar itself was merely some timbers laid across a couple of barrels in front of shelves roughly attached to the wall. On each side of the bar were two low doorways—one covered with a deerskin, the other, a black bear hide. A few candles were about, giving off a weak dancing light and strong smell of beeswax. Coming from the east, the reverend had grown up smelling spermaceti wax derived from the whale oil. One of the pleasant surprises in coming more inland was most still made beeswax, bayberry, or even beef tallow candles. All of which smelled much better than the more hardy spermaceti candles.

A skinny old man sat at one of the tables, a bowl of thin stew before him. On the table, next to the old man’s elbow, sat a raccoon. Sitting upright on its haunches, he held the end of a crusted loaf, happily smacking his mouth each time he chewed.

The old man looked up from his stew and nodded. King, he said around something he was presently gumming. He is in the back. A gnarled old hand rubbed across his mouth, and like the raccoon, he clicked his tongue with a couple of openmouthed chews. He took a bottle with ’em ’bout an hour back. So I don’t know whatch’ll find.

The old man went back to his stew, but the raccoon, still smacking his mouth, watched the two men as they moved around the room.

King led Reverend to the deerskin-covered doorway and handed him the basket he had been carrying. This is it for me, Reverend.

Shifting the basket and his own bag to one arm, the reverend held out his hand. Tell Aunt Charlotte, Lord willing, I will be out to see her soon. And, King—he hesitated, shook his head—no sermon. He took a breath and blew it out his mouth. Just remember, King, you’re a good man. He turned and entered the room.

One guttering candle lit the windowless small room. It sat atop a small roundish wood table adorned with one rickety looking chair. They sat near a small potbelly stove—quite a luxury for such a dismal place. A wood bin sat next to the stove, and a few small sticks and bark strips littered the bottom. One strip of bark was tunneled, and a few of the termites were waking with the warmth the stove provided. It was indeed warmer in this small room than it had been in the main room. A roughly honed bed sat against the wall with an ill-made chest at its foot. Atop the chest and bed were several pairs of unfolded clothes sticking out from under the edges of a large quilt that had been spread out.

A large grizzled head came from under the end of the quilt. One bloodshot blue eye and one as gray as a winter morning peered at the reverend from out of the depths of thick hair. Head, eyebrows, mustaches, or beard did not appear to have been trimmed, combed, or washed in ever.

What do you want? rumbled a low voice.

Ah, yes. Mr. James Wade, my name is—

A pox on who you are. What do you want? said the still not loud but commanding voice.

Reverend Shane was taken aback. Mr. Wade, I was told you were expecting me. You see—

In one quick, fluid motion, an absolute mountain of a man rose from the bed. He was old, at least in his sixties. But years of frontier living had wrought a very sturdy man. His undone three-button shirt neck showed a mass of gray-lined hair growing from the man’s chest, making it near impossible to tell where the beard stopped and chest hair began. His badly stained shirt fell to below his waist, except where it bunched around leather suspenders darkened over the years by hand oils. The suspenders held up pleatless, wrinkled trousers that ended at hole-riddled socks in bad need of darning. The suddenness of the man’s rising caused a kind of squeaking noise to come from the reverend.

In a high-pitched voice, hugging his bag and basket to his chest, he said, Morgan’s Station. Mr. Wade, I am here to talk to you about Morgan’s Station.

The frontiersman blinked slowly, dabbed a kerchief at the gray eye, swayed, and then relaxed his features. You’re the priest?

Reverend, he corrected with a nod of his head.

Whatever, James said as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed, dragging the quilt up over his shoulders, he snuggled in. Then a light of remembrance lit his face, and he dug around in the strewn clothes, searching for his bottle. Once found, he popped the cork and took a quick swig and closed his eye as the burn hit his belly.

He looked back to the reverend. Why do you want to hear that story so badly? he asked as he restoppered the bottle with a practiced hand.

Sliding the candle to the edge of the table, Reverend Shane set his basket and bag upon the table. He removed his coat and gloves and hung them on the back of the chair. Yes, well, you see—he opened the bag and pulled forth a stoppered inkbottle and a pair of freshly nibbed quills—four years ago, I heard of the attack. Several sheaves of parchment followed. I’ve searched out and have spoken with many of your friends who were there, and—

I have no friends from there.

I thought you and Harry Martin were close?

Harry Martin is no friend of mine. At least not anymore, James replied.

The reverend paused, looking at the large man. As you say, old acquaintances then? When no answer came, he continued, I am simply trying to record the events for history. He sat the bag on the floor and started arranging the parchments upon the table. It is important for future generations to know from where they come. To know the kind of men who came before them. Smiling at the man, he continued, And by God’s grace, it is to be my pleasure to write a small portion of these histories.

James took another swig, not so quick this time. Go home, Priest.

Reverend.

This is not history. He clenched his teeth and sighed, dabbing at his eye again. This is life and what it turns us into. There are no happy endings. God did not intervene and fight for the right of the just. There are no great romances. There are not even any heroes in this tale. Hell, I am no longer sure there were even criminals, just dying. What life is all about, just dying.

After a long pause, the reverend cautiously sank into the chair. Mr. Wade, I respectfully disagree. By the glory of God, many of you survived the ordeal. It may not be the life you wished, but it is the one He provided you. And romance? What of Mr. Jim Beath, shot in the shoulder, dragged north, and sold to the British. Escaping and making his way home just before his wife, thinking him dead, remarried. Was that not love? And heroes, Mr. Wade? Did you yourself not pursue the savages to attempt a rescue? Fighting these Indians, is it not how you lost your eye? No, sir, this story has it all.

The two men sat looking at each other for a long time. Neither man spoke nor even moved. Time stretched out.

The big man sighed. The problem with history is there is so little truth written in it.

Yes, I agree. But as a man of God, I can only write the truth as you tell it to me.

A bark of sardonic laughter came from the man. As you see or think you hear it. My point exactly.

Another long silence. Reverend Shane laid his hand upon the basket. I brought meat pies.

With another sigh, James